


Doubts

by Huehxolotl



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Everyone needs a break, Gen, Literally right after Stormblood, Lyse needs a break, Post-Stormblood, Raubahn needs a break
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-13 00:41:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21235286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Huehxolotl/pseuds/Huehxolotl
Summary: Ala Mhigo is free, but Lyse and Raubahn feel more lost than ever before.





	Doubts

**Author's Note:**

> I thought it would be silly to write something for Stormblood a literal expansion later, but then I realized that I can do what I want and no one can stop me wahahaha.

**~Lyse~**

Ala Mhigo is free.

Ala Mhigo is _free._

The Garleans are on the run, Zenos is dead, the capital city is belongs to Gyr Abania once more. History has been made this day.

‘_So why can’t I feel anything?_’

Battle, and the immediate aftermath, is something she is familiar with. Though the war is over, there is still a flurry of activity in every street. Stray imperials need to be rounded up, civilians accounted for, injured rescued, bodies to be gathered. Soldiers report to her, she gives orders -_or the closest thing to orders she knows how to give _Rhalgr_ how had this happened why is she here it wasn’t supposed to be like this it isn’t supposed to be _her_ here_\- and though she has never really been in a position to _give_ orders, she has a general idea of what those orders need to be.

“It’s nearly time for your meeting, Commander.”

She doesn’t sigh, however desperately she wants to do _something_ to express her discontent. She should be happy, ecstatic, celebrating. Something. Anything. But how can she, as she takes note of all the injured, all the dead, all the destruction? Buildings can be replaced, but lives? Those are gone forever once lost.

“Is it that time already?” she asks after a slight hesitation. She forgets that she is a commander -_not _the_ commander because the Resistance is many groups, with many commanders_\- now. The title sits on her shoulders as awkwardly as her true name does; she has lost count of how many times she has failed to respond to either of them, and she hasn’t even been commander for very long. It never fails to lead to awkward conversations, the moment of doubt lingering between her and the soldiers as proof that she has no idea what she’s doing.

Honestly, it was a little inconsiderate of Conrad to make her “commander” when she was still trying to figure out who “Lyse” is.

Getting to the meeting tent involves being stopped half a dozen times by half a dozen different groups, yet she is one of the first to arrive. She suspects that many of the other leaders took the time to speak with the Warrior of Light beyond their initial praising so many hours ago, not that she begrudges them the indulgence; she meant it when she told the warrior that they were the real hero of this war.

The meeting is a mere courtesy. They had long decided on their plans for the aftermath of the battle, but it’s important to meet one last time to ensure that there are no changes. From the reports the others are giving, there aren’t any, which she is grateful for. The adrenaline high of battle has long worn off, and the only thing keeping her on her feet are several questionable energy potions, two ration bars, and the cheer of the citizens and soldiers. She can’t feel much but exhaustion herself, but seeing her people so happy gives her the strength to carry on.

“Commander.”

She blinks and steps away from the table to face the towering soldier that is suddenly behind her. The title has an emphasis to it that she recognizes; she wonders how many times she has been called just now. “Sorry. I might need another potion or...three,” she says quietly. Lord Aymeric has started his report, and she doesn’t want to interrupt him beyond the pause he made as they waited for her to respond. How embarrassing.

The soldier gives her a crooked smile, sympathy glinting in his eyes. ‘_Composed Mountain_,’ her memory supplies. A lieutenant who has been on the ground just as long as she has, and has had twice as many energy potions as she has. This is his third report to her in the aftermath of the battle alone, and the sixth time they have spoken since her unexpected promotion. He had been wary in the Reach, unsure of her qualifications but willing to work with her. After fighting at her side, he has been greeting her with something resembling _respect_.

“At this point, I would suggest sleeping before Rhaz starts fussing.”

Grimacing at the idea of Naago finding out about her less than stellar after-battle “meals,” she takes the papers he is holding out. “No rest for the wicked, Lieutenant. Thanks for the report.”

Mountain knows a dismissal when he hears one, leaving her with a crisp salute and a mumbled parting remark that she doesn’t have a wicked bone in her body. It almost makes her smile.

Examining the papers, she wills her eyes to focus, her body to stop trembling, and her mind to ignore the lingering looks from the other leaders. They’re likely curious about the report, but a not so small part of her wonders if they’re thinking what she fears.

That she doesn’t deserve to stand at their side.

-_Could she really blame them if they were?_-

**~Raubahn~**

As a general, the end of a war is never truly the _end_. There are far too many details that need to be seen to. For those in command, a war or battle doesn’t “end” until their soldiers are finally returned home, weeks, sometimes months after the final battles. Not even the battle of Ala Mhigo is different, and so in spite of his pride and joy in seeing his homeland free at last, he is, for the most part, utterly exhausted by the time night falls.

It is, perhaps, fortunate that his soldiers have little to no need for his presence outside of ensuring their reports are received and noted. Many of those present are survivors of Operation Archon, meaning that Kan-E and Merlwyb’s people -also mainly survivors of those battles- are equally capable of handling the aftermath without oversight, which had found them taking charge of much of the efforts. The Ishgardians are doing their best to assist; partially out of respect for the Alliance and partially out of awareness that Ishgard’s previous prolonged isolation puts them in the position of outsiders. It will take time for that wariness to fade, but taking part in the war will go a long way towards that end.

Doma, for its part, has less trouble fitting in than Ishgard. The most foreign of their groups, they are unknown to practically every soldier present. By all rights, _they_ should be considered the true outsiders among the troops, yet he had not foreseen the influence that one person in particular would hold.

Lyse Hext.

Gratitude and respect for the Warrior of Light binds them all together enough that the Alliance was possible, of course, but Doma and its king holds the new -_and so painfully young_\- commander in nearly equal esteem. This, in turn, is bolstering the confidence of the Resistance soldiers in Hext. Doma respects their representative commander, therefore respects _them_, and his people respond in kind.

It’s a pleasant surprise that bodes well for future alliances with Doma. Trade with the far East had once been plentiful, and perhaps someday that relationship will renew itself.

But that is something to consider later, after he has eaten and slept for a day or two. Which will only happen after Rhalgr knows how many meetings with the Alliance leaders, or his soldiers, or the locals as he remains in charge of the alliance. Not that anyone can sleep with the celebrations going strong, he thinks with a certain level of amusement. Civilians have been roaming the city streets that aren’t too damaged, singing, drinking, and dancing since victory was announced, and the celebrations only grew stronger as night fell. People call out to him as he indulges in a short walk through the stone city he barely remembers. They greet him, praise him, and beg him to share a drink or story with them.

He is beyond tempted to give in, but something holds him back.

This is everything he has wanted for twenty years. Longer, even, as Gyr Abania suffered under the weight of the Mad King’s paranoia for years before the invasion.

Yet.

Twenty years is a long time. So much has changed. _He_ has changed. He has found a new family, made a place for himself in a new nation, has _sworn new allegiances_. His homeland is free, but can he truly say that he is one of them now? Can he truly say that Gyr Abania is home?

The problem is that, for all that he is proud of his achievements and work with the Flames, he can. The problem is that now he faces the reality of a free Ala Mhigo, once a dream thought far beyond his grasp, and _he can’t stay_.

His countrymen call to him, and he walks away because he’s certain that if he lingers among them, he will all too easily decide to break the chains that bind him to Ul’dah, Pippin, and Nanamo.

-_But when had he started to think of his attachments as chains?_-

**~Kan-E-Senna~**

Many claim that one needs the patience of a saint to endure a life dedicated to the healing profession, but any decent healer knows that patience is merely secondary to _iron will_ as far as necessary traits go. As the Elder Seedseer, she has almost never needed to resort to any action sterner than a mild reproach; only her siblings, and now Lyse Hext, have drawn out her more stubborn side. And it certainly took a fair bit of stubborness to follow -stalk- Lyse to her tent, then corner her before she managed an escape.

“I’m _fine_. I promise!”

She doesn’t deign that with a reply, letting her facial expressions do the talking.

“...There’s too much _work_ left to do,” Lyse eventually mumbles defensively. Dropping herself onto the sole chair, she sighs deeply as she slumps down. Her tension fades, and suddenly she looks far too tired, and far too young to be so burdened. “I don’t have time to sleep.”

“It would hurt moral”-and Lyse’s image, she wants say-“more if you collapsed from exhaustion than if you were to retire for the night.”

“It’s fine as long as I’m standing!”

The declaration is as frustrating as it is unsurprising. Lyse has always been prone to overworking, but for as long as they have been acquainted, she has always had Papalymo to scold her into resting. The other Scions -except perhaps Archon Rhul- simply do not have the same influence with her. Now that she has taken on a leadership role, “too much work” is a viable excuse to work herself sick.

It’s a sentiment she understands, having done the same herself many years ago. She hopes Lyse doesn’t remember that period of time, but the woman’s memory is frighteningly sharp, for all that her attitude often suggests otherwise. 

The fully trained healer in her dearly wants to force the woman into a medical tent for a proper check up, but the leader in her recalls how General Aldynn is much the same way. How _many_ of the Resistance soldiers seem to be competing for longest time standing. Between them and the Maelstrom, she pities the healers and worries for the army’s stock of potions. Supplies are low enough as it is.Though, thinking of it that way, Lyse working until she all but collapses might _help_ her gain support from her people.

Not that it’s difficult to find admirable qualities in Lyse Hext.

“What do you intend to do after this?” she asks while she heals the worst of Lyse’s injuries. No bones are broken, but she will be sore for weeks no matter how many potions she takes or healing sessions she sits through.

“Sleep, apparently.”

She chuckles, half in amusement, half in agreement. Lyse had _better_ sleep, and she has a desperate desire to do so herself.

“Oh, did you mean?” Lyse waves her hand in the direction of the city, and frowns.

The distance in her eyes is unsettling. Perhaps because she is still unaccustomed to seeing Lyse’s maskless face, or perhaps because Lyse’s aura remains dark with grief and uncertainty in spite of the victory in Ala Mhigo. It takes all her willpower to keep her from hugging the woman she -tentatively- considers a friend; she settles for taking her hand and squeezing lightly.

“Conrad, he left me in charge of all this. I still doubt it was a good decision, but I at least want to make sure everything is settled and organized and. I don’t know. I can’t just leave it like this, you know? I guess...I’m going to do everything they need me to, until they wise up and send me back to the Scions.”

Much as she wants to argue against the self-deprecation in Lyse’s answer, she manages to keep silent and take time to consider the answer. Lyse may not be a veteran general, but she is neither new to battle nor to some of the intricacies of military operations. Her penchant for earning the friendship, trust, and loyalty of people she works with made her one of the few outsiders the Serpents tolerated in the years after the Calamity; a fact that Papalymo shamelessly took advantage of, often leaving her as the Scion’s main emissary in Gridania.

Knowing what she does of Lyse’s personality, and what she learned of her apparent famous father, she can understand why Commander Kemp decided to bequeath his position as spokesperson of the Resistance to her; with the Alliance doing the bulk of the work and planning, all Lyse needed to do was keep her people’s spirits high, and having a last name as legendary as “Hext” would do most of the work.

“What is it, exactly, that you have been charged with?” she asks curiously.

“Rhalgr’s Reach,” Lyse says instantly. “The Resistance isn’t really a formal military. Rhalgr’s Reach was the largest base, but isn’t the _headquarters_. Each cell is independent, with their own commander. We’re working together now, but most of the soldiers will return to their previous posts once things are stabilized here.”

Independant guerilla groups. It was a smart decision on the Resistance’s part. With the empire having taken full control of Gyr Abania, maintaining contact between the different bases would have been far too dangerous. “Transitioning to a functional army won’t be without its challenges. I imagine that the various commanders have long adapted to operating without oversight. You ought to speak with the Admiral before she takes her leave,” she advises firmly. “If there is anyone who has experience with persuading disparate groups to work together, it is _her_.”

Lyse is first startled by the recommendation, then thoughtful, then amused. “Pirates sure are stubborn enough to give us a run for our gil. Y’shtola complained about it constantly,” she says through a snicker. Her mirth quickly fades at the reminder of the woman who nearly died for her sake, however. “Should...I be the one having that conversation?”

Ah. She remembers being so unsure of her place, of her ability to lead, and of asking for help. Her hesitance had caused many unnecessary problems, and she refuses to allow Lyse to suffer through the same thing. “I don’t see any crowds rushing to “demote” you from your commander position, and of all the Resistance, you are most familiar with the admiral. There _is_ no better person to begin that conversation.”

That Lyse is thinking of such things before the day has ended is a good sign. The -former?- Scion may not be the most articulate of her comrades, but she has good instincts, and a knack for putting people at ease. It will not take much effort to turn Lyse into an excellent commander; provided she has an excellent teacher.

And who in Eorzea can claim to be better than Raubahn Aldynn? Though he, too, is now in the habit of staring at Ala Mhigo with the look of a man who questions his place, she is certain that he will not object to giving Lyse Hext a much needed “crash course” in military leadership. Perhaps the distraction will serve him well, and it will do them both good to become accustomed to working together.

She suspects that, one way or another, Raubahn Aldynn will soon be _truly_ coming home to Ala Mhigo.

They speak more of the troubles Lyse expects to face in the coming moons, the atmosphere almost relaxed. She can almost imagine them being in Gridania, having an informal meeting about some distressing matter that the Scions stumbled upon, or were asked to investigate, but ultimately solved with ease.

“I imagine the Scions are eager to help,” she says when the conversation turns to a musing on the economic struggles that the country will have to deal with come the morrow.

Rather than agreeing with her, however, Lyse looks pained, shrinking into her seat and hugging herself tightly. “We. No, _they_, are a neutral organization. They’re supposed to be, anyway. Alphinaud doesn’t do so well at that, but I know that the rest prefer maintaining their neutrality. I won’t put their status in jeopardy by asking _favors_ from them. Not when I’m so closely associated with, uh, the closest thing to a government Gyr Abania has right now.”

_‘She’s leaving the Scions,’_ she understands immediately. It shouldn’t be a surprise. If anything, it should have been the expectation, yet she _knows_ how much Lyse loves working for the Scions. Lyse Hext was born to help those in need, and whatever the circumstances behind her joining the ranks of Louisoix’s organization, she had firmly believed in the goals of first the Circle of Twelve, then the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. The beliefs and goals that Louisoix advocated are ones that she risked her life for on numerous occasions, without hesitation or fear.

The decision to leave the Scions can’t be an easy one to make, but that she _is_ making it so quickly speaks to her acute awareness of her political position and great respect for her friends.

At a loss for words, she settles for a soft, “Papalymo would have been proud of you.”

For a moment, as Lyse’s shoulders stiffen and tears gather in her eyes, she thinks it is too soon to mention the lost Scion, friend, and the closest thing to family Lyse had left in the world. But her fears are unfounded, for she is given a painful smile and laugh shortly after. “Maybe once he stopped complaining.”

It might be inappropriate to giggle, but she can’t help it; Papalymo and Lyse’s arguments were infamous among her Adders.

She takes her leave shortly after, though not without handing over the few potions she has left on her person and Lyse -always the brave one- pulling her in for a hug they both need. Work in Gyr Abania has only just begun, but, unlike before, it will not stand alone.

And neither shall Lyse Hext.


End file.
